


A Ship is a Republic

by robotboy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Awkward Boners, BDSM, Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Internalised anti-Irishness and ableism, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Painplay, Post-Season/Series 03, Sex Toys, Swordplay, bisexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19289206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Flint and Silver train every day on the cliffs, and Silver starts to realise he likes being told what to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [With beautiful art by mount--cleverest ](https://imgur.com/a/3TDJmbz)

Silver hits the ground.

The noise is knocked out of him by the impact, a miserable grunt that sounds more hurt than he’d like it to. His heart races, pumping that sick feeling through his veins. He rotates his left wrist, which took the bulk of the impact, and pain rushes through it. Every other joint brings a chorus of complaints, things he didn’t notice while he was moving but clamour with aches the moment he’s stopped.

Boots appear in his vision and he curls inward without thinking, knees coming up to protect the more vital organs and his elbows covering his head.

‘Come on,’ the voice above him is gruff. A hand is offered and Silver blinks at it. Callouses on the fingers; a broad palm; freckles as thick as the cuff of a sleeve around the wrist. A hand that’s becoming as familiar as his own, fingers wriggling to beckon him up when he doesn’t respond immediately.

It would be nice to lie here in the dirt a bit longer. His crutch flew out from under him when he fell, so that’s a good excuse. At least he didn’t land on his sword: he must have flung it somewhere on his way down, likely as far away as his crutch. But no, his eyes swivel and he spots the crutch held loosely in Flint’s free hand, ready for Silver to take it once he gets up.

Silver unclenches the fist behind his ear and holds it out, thumb interlocking with Flint’s to clasp their hands together. Flint’s grip is steady, his skin dry in spite of the heat. Silver hefts himself up, and Flint’s hand acts more as an anchor than a line. Not carrying Silver, then, but offering the crutch for Silver to take when he’s ready.

Silver straightens himself, or as straight as he gets these days with his lop-sided posture, and brushes some of the sand off. There’s probably twigs in his hair. He keeps holding Flint’s hand as he gets the crutch tucked into his armpit, finally letting go once he has another point of balance secured.

‘Again?’

Silver draws a deep breath, sending the exhalation into every muscle that begs him to say no, to lie back down. Silver draws his sword where Flint has stabbed it into the sand beside his own. Flint’s eyes flash to Silver’s wrist and he loosens his grip, remembering the correction from when they started. _See,_ Silver doesn’t say. _I’m learning._

They spar again in the same pattern as before, Flint attacking and Silver blocking. It begins with slow, sweeping blows on alternating sides, letting Silver find his balance. The crutch requires more attention than the sword: Silver had used it as briefly as possible before demanding the peg, and his strengths have changed significantly since those first few months. He also never used it while frantically hopping backwards to avoid Flint’s blade.

‘Looser,’ Flint changes the angle of his slash and Silver has to readjust so his forearm doesn’t lock and allow Flint to twist the sword away.

‘Closer,’ Flint sweeps in from the side and Silver must resist bringing his blade to meet Flint’s, where it would unbalance him and leave him open. He can put his strength behind a tighter block, killing the momentum of Flint’s arc.

‘Faster,’ Flint stabs instead of chopping, and Silver’s blade slithers around Flint’s, steering the blow harmlessly to one side.

‘Breathe,’ and Silver does, still moving, keeping his weight low so he won’t stumble again.

There’s no time except to do what Flint instructs him, no opportunity to question or negotiate. The pattern repeats: Flint’s instruction, and Silver’s enactment of it; instruction, enactment; instruction, enactment.

‘Harder,’ Flint orders him. Edge shrieks against edge until the hilts clash, and Silver holds fast as Flint bears down on him. A tremor runs up his arm and he glances up at Flint’s face. It’s a mistake, taking his focus away from the swords. Flint shoves and Silver has to twist away, dropping his sword, his crutch skittering along the uneven ground.

‘Good,’ Flint says.

Silver’s breath is coming fast. He can feel his heartbeat thrumming against the skin of his throat, a flush rising on his face. A moment too late, he thinks to smirk, to joke about besting Flint, to celebrate. All he musters is surprise at Flint’s praise, an unfamiliar kind of elation that likely comes from exertion more than anything else. And then, more recognisable: doubt.

‘But that wasn’t harder,’ Silver says, hearing his own breathlessness. ‘You overpowered me.’

‘And yet you’re unscathed,’ Flint points out, taking a moment to adjust his shirt. ‘Because you remembered the rest of it. Keeping your wrist flexible; using strength from your core; thinking quickly.’

Silver nods, wishing words would come to his tongue.

‘Again?’


	2. Chapter 2

The drilling quiets Silver’s mind. It’s not _easy,_ exactly: Flint’s attacks are relentless, and Silver’s body must learn habits until they are quicker than conscious thought. He aches from the daily sessions. But he aches anyway, one manner of pain or another.

‘The strength will only come from practice,’ Flint says. ‘You compensate with your better skills in a pinch, but I don’t want you winning every fight by pinches.’

Silver grins at the metaphor. Flint raises his eyebrows: not scolding, but not indulging him either. Silver could swear Flint has been goading him. He cannot be expected to avoid the teasing, when Flint’s glances have a flash of something. Something that frightened Silver, once: back when he’d first seen it, in the cage. Before a fireside confession.

‘Again?’ Flint offers. This time, the blows rain down heavily, forcing Silver to push back with all his might. He’s not fast enough, an edge of panic creeping into his mind as his forearm twinges.

Silver darts forward desperately and then catches himself. The crutch slips from under him and Flint steps to one side, letting Silver crash into the dirt.

‘Tell me why that happened,’ Flint says, not offering his hand.

Silver snorts, glaring at the scrub as he twists into a sitting position. ‘I lost my balance.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve got one leg,’ Silver snaps.

‘No,’ Flint says. ‘You’ve always got one leg; you don’t always fall.’

Silver sighs, his fingers digging into the earth. ‘Do you want to tell me why I fell?’

‘You were going to try something, and you stopped,’ Flint says. ‘Why?’

Silver shakes his head, squinting up at Flint’s face. ‘Honestly? I was going to hit you in the balls.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Flint asks.

A laugh escapes Silver. ‘What, really? You wanted me to hit you in the balls?’

Flint shrugs. ‘I want you to win fights. That would have finished this one off.’

‘You haven’t hit _me_ in the balls,’ Silver points out.

Flint sighs, dropping into a crouch so they’re eye to eye.

‘What you’re doing,’ he says. ’I would like to think we were past it.’

Silver looks at how Flint’s trousers stretch across his knee, and the casual way Flint’s elbow is propped on it. He follows past the rolled-up sleeve to the lax grip Flint has on his sword: anything, this time, except Flint’s eyes.

‘Past what?’ Silver mumbles.

‘You fight the way I fight,’ Flint tells him. ‘The way you _think_ I _want_ you to fight.’

Silver opens his mouth to argue, but Flint holds up a hand.

‘You anticipate my thoughts; that’s smart. It will give you an advantage with others. But you have your own methods, from your own experiences. I’m _not_ asking what those are—’ Flint’s gaze is piercing, as if he has looked in and seen all that Silver could not say—‘but I don’t want you to abandon them. They’ve kept you alive. They’re useful. I _can’t_ teach you to fight like me: I was trained younger; I’ve a different build; I’ve got two legs. I’m not trying to shape you into me. I’m not flattered by it.’

‘You’d rather I hit you in the balls,’ Silver repeats, his voice flat.

‘I’d rather you not fight with only half the skills you have,’ Flint sighs. ‘Under the misapprehension that I want you to become someone else.’

_Perhaps I like him better,_ Silver doesn’t say. But _fuck,_ it almost slips out, the same as his fist had before he had fallen into this sorry mess. A stupid thing to say. A useless one.

Flint smiles at him when Silver looks up. He glimpses it again, a truth buried in the heart of these hours: _I want you to live._

Not the most intimate of sentiments, certainly, but under the circumstances, it is—well, Silver never has time enough to dwell on what it is. He takes Flint’s hand and leverages himself upright again.

Silver doesn’t hit him in the balls. He turns one of Flint’s blows away and lands a fist in Flint’s kidney. Both of them stumble, Flint from the pain and Silver as he regains his grip on the crutch.

‘Good,’ Flint chokes, and this time it’s Silver who asks:

‘Again?’


	3. Chapter 3

’Slash—and jab,’ Flint describes it like steps of a dance. But there’s no pattern, to keep Silver on his toes—which feels unfair when he only has five of them.

‘Turn.’

Silver turns.

‘Parry.’

Silver parries.

‘Block.’

Silver doesn’t. There’s an opening in Flint’s attack, and Silver angles for it. Flint flicks his sword as it meets Silver’s. Silver’s elbow locks, forcing him to drop the weapon. He blurts out a string of curses not entirely in English, rubbing the joint before collecting his sword.

‘When you’re told to block, you _block,’_ Flint reminds him. ‘Nobody will know how clever you are if you’re dead.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Silver answers. The moment the word leaves his lips, he feels heat twisting in his stomach. His eyes drop to Flint’s feet. He wishes he hadn’t tied so much of his hair back, so more would fall in front of his face. Not that he has any idea what’s on his face, only that for a moment, he doesn’t want Flint to see. He must be red, he realises, because heat has crept up through his chest and tightened around his throat before filling his cheeks.

He’d meant it sarcastically, but remembering that makes him want to squirm away just as much. He adjusts his grip on the crutch, and his grip on himself. When he meets Flint’s eyes, they’re crinkled with curiosity.

‘Is this a problem for you?’ Flint asks. ‘Being told what to do?’

‘It’s fine,’ Silver assures him.

‘I understand why it may be challenging, taking orders from me,’ Flint says, his voice level.

‘Well, pirates typically lack respect for authority,’ Silver quips, trying to let the tension seep away.

‘None more so than their King, I imagine,’ Flint raises his eyebrows.

‘That’s what this is?’ Silver scowls. They’ve barely talked about his new position. ‘ _You’re_ the one who thought it was a good idea.’

’I still do,’ Flint says. ‘But I recognise that it may change the dynamic between us.’

‘The _dynamic?’_ Silver repeats. ‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’

As if he has a better name for it. As if he has any idea what he’s doing when he’s not turning, and parrying, and failing to block.

Flint doesn’t quite smile, but a deep line appears in one cheek.

‘To defer _so instinctively_ that you absorb a lesson?’ Flint says obliquely. ‘That’s not an easy thing. I’d understand if it grates you.’

‘I told you there’s no pride between us, not when we’re alone,’ Silver reminds him. ‘You’re my Captain.’

‘Can a King have a Captain?’ Flint is definitely smiling now.

Silver sighs, giving himself a chance to choose his words. ‘A ship is a republic, not a monarchy, right? A Quartermaster can have a Captain.’

‘Well then, Mister Quartermaster,’ Flint taps his blade against Silver’s until it lifts with his own. ‘You’re to block when you’re fucking told.’

This time, the _yes, sir_ that escapes Silver is entirely unexpected, and so breathless that it goes unheard.


	4. Chapter 4

‘You should finish,’ Flint tells him.

They’re sat at a low table with a mix of Walrus men and Maroons. The pot of stew between them is barely warm, and the plate of sour, pancake-ish bread is depleted.

‘The fuck’s it to you?’ Silver snaps. The words are out before he can catch them. He shoves the stew-soaked bread in his mouth to forestall any further hostility escaping.

Flint’s eyebrows raise. His bemusement is somewhat ruined by the redness of his nose, and the sheen of tears in his eyes. The stew tonight is a strange mix of flavours, served warm but burning Silver’s sinuses and numbing his tongue. Flint had suppressed a cough after his first mouthful, glancing around to check nobody saw the hardened pirate defeated by a well-spiced dinner. It’s better than Silver’s cooking, at any rate. Flint had muttered so, after two cups of water.

The taste reminds Silver of another life. A birthday, perhaps, some festival he could no longer name. Maybe nothing more than the confluence of a spice trader in Galway and his mother having money to spare, an event much rarer than a birthday.

He hates when memories have a smell.

That might be why he’s prickly: that, and the way the meal is served in a shared pot, for Flint and himself and the other men at the table to dollop it onto their plates as they please. He must take only so much. He must not look greedy. He must remember there will be breakfast tomorrow, and lunch, and dinners for the foreseeable future.

He must chew before he swallows, or he’ll be choking like a man who’s never eaten piri piri. James Flint, for example, who surreptitiously wipes his leaking nose.

Silver pointedly mops up the last of his stew—it _was_ too big a serving, but habit is stronger than appetite—and pulls a face at Flint.

‘Am I going to grow up big and strong, Captain?’ Silver mutters, as the other men at the table take their leave.

Flint gives him a considering look, as if he’s taking the question seriously. Silver realises he’s joked of being a boy, has been eating this food and guarding his plate like he had as a boy. And Flint perceives something of it. He replies in a voice so low that none around them will hear.

‘I will run you ragged tomorrow,’ he promises. ‘So as big and as strong as you can manage.’

Silver lets his hand hover in his face, obscuring any expression thar might be visible by checking his beard for crumbs. His own fingertip surprises him, a ghost of a touch on his lower lip, still tingling from paprika. He swipes his thumb, tongue flicking out to catch the lingering flavour.

Flint’s eyes burn hotter than the food. Anger at Silver’s impudence, at the flash of pride that Silver has when they’re not training.

What else it could be but anger, Silver does not contemplate at the time. His thoughts are entangled in a song, sung over a stove in lyrics he only knew phonetically. He never had an ear for his mother tongue.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, the morning Silver has woken up with the phrase _run you ragged_ doing circles in his head, Flint says:

‘I’m going to teach you how to fall.’

‘I know how to fall,’ Silver grins. ‘God knows I do it often enough.’

‘I meant how to fall _properly,’_ Flint tells him. ‘You’re right: you’re going to fall. If we get this right, you don’t end up injured or killed when it happens. Then we figure out if you can keep fighting from the ground.’

‘That’s the part where I slash at your ankles until I win?’

Flint laughs. ‘More or less.’

‘Can we skip to that part?’

Flint shakes his head, amused. ‘Unfortunately we can’t. But there’s two ways we can start. You can decide which is more comfortable.’

‘Ah, the comfortable way of falling over,’ Silver says. ‘I want that one.’

Flint rolls his eyes. ‘We can start from standing: it’s further to fall but more likely to happen in a fight. You will tire faster, and likely hurt more. So normally—’

‘—what’s normally?’ Silver asks.

‘I’d have you on your knees,’ Flint tells him.

It’s quiet on the cliffs. Down in the jungle, the wildlife rustles and the birds chirp. The river babbles and the wind whistles through the valleys. Up here, there’s only the distant crashing of the waves. Without the clanging of swords or the scuffing of boots on sand, it’s almost silent.

A long, gaping silence where Silver fails to formulate a clever quip. It feels cruel, suddenly, to make some flippant innuendo about it. The last man who likely knelt for Flint in such a way was a man who loved him, who died for it. And besides—

‘If you can’t—’ Flint starts.

‘—I can,’ Silver says flatly.

Flint has never seen; nobody has. Not Madi, who has slipped into his shack to warm his bed three times in as many weeks. Not Howell, who’d probably scold him and confiscate the rest of his leg. But Silver knows that, in a pinch, his left knee is strong enough to bear weight. At the very limits of his pride and his pain, a clumsy, aching knee-walk is possible. He has done it, in the dark, in search of a water jug; a chamberpot; flint and tinder. In the gloom he does not have to picture his pathetic crawl.

Someone, probably Vane, had once used a metaphor about _dying on your feet rather than living on your knees._ Silver imagines the bastard would have changed his tune, if his crew had cut _his_ foot off.

Silver drops, lowering himself with one hand on the crutch and one in the sand, until he’s kneeling before Flint. Flint’s thigh almost hits him in the face as Flint hurries into the same position, so they’re face-to-face again.

Flint instructs him on momentum; how to slap the ground as he drops, not breaking the fall but absorbing the impact. The theory of it sounds questionable, even as Flint demonstrates by demanding:

‘Push me.’

Silver does as he’s told. He shoves Flint with as much force as he can muster; a limited quantity when he’s on his knees. Flint tumbles to one side in a fluid motion too quick for Silver to properly follow.

When it’s Silver’s turn, Flint guides him through the action in stages.

‘Tuck your chin in,’ Flint’s index finger presses below his mouth. ‘Neck straight.’

The other hand is cupping Silver’s spine, positioning him.

‘Good.’

Silver has his eyes closed. He only realises when Flint’s next touch surprises him.

‘Your thigh can take more of the fall than you realise,’ Flint pats the broadest part of Silver’s thigh. ‘Here.’

Silver nods, forcing his eyes open. Flint gives him a stern look, and Silver tucks his chin back in.

‘Let yourself roll, starting here—’ Flint’s pinkie touches the side of Silver’s knee, then he splays his palm up Silver’s leg until his thumb meets the hip—‘up to here. One arm in front of you.’

Flint takes his hand, straightening the arm but keeping the joints loose. ‘Throw the whole arm down; not the palm or elbow. Worry about the sword and the crutch later.’

Flint squeezes his shoulder, turning it to the correct angle. Then he taps Silver’s stomach.

‘Core tight, limbs loose,’ he instructs. ‘Shout if you have to: it helps your body absorb the shock.’

This is becoming a lot more complicated than looking at two points at the same time, Silver realises. He doesn’t mention it.

‘I’m going to push you,’ Flint says. ‘But slowly. Remember as much as you can.’

It’s not pushing, really, when it happens. More like tipping, Flint’s voice low and steady as he guides Silver’s thigh to curve toward the earth, supporting his arm and showing him the force he needs to slap the ground. Then fingers tracing over the bare skin of his throat, Flint’s voice reminding him to keep his neck straight. And Silver makes his oldest mistake: looking into Flint’s eyes. Flint is watching him, too, almost cradling him at this point.

‘I’ve got you,’ Flint murmurs.

Flint lets go and Silver’s shoulder thumps into the ground.

Silver reluctantly admits it hurt less than most falls. Admittedly, he was probably five inches from the sand when he dropped, but still.

‘We’ll practice on the right until you’ve built the habit,’ Flint says. ‘Then the left, until your leg won’t let us.’

Flint is far more patient with this than he is with swordplay. Silver must fall a hundred times. A thousand touches correct his form. Silver feels each one, until he could recognise the whorls on Flint’s fingertips by touch. Silver is already flushed from practicing, hitting the sand and drawing himself up again. If a palm pressing his thigh and knuckles rapping his abdomen send his blood rushing to meet Flint’s touch, it’s not obvious. His throat; his hips; if Silver is red and gasping, staring up at Flint, it’s only disequilibrium.

Only—only.

That evening, he’s bent over a bucket of water, rinsing sand from his hair. He dips bunches of curls in the water and scrubs them, working the grit away from his scalp before focusing on the ends. His head rushes like it had when they were tumbling. He digs his own fingers into his scalp and sighs. If he could pull the thoughts out of his head and tidy them like he’s tidying his curls, maybe this headache would go away. A drop of water escapes his hair and creeps down his neck, making him shiver. Flint had not touched his scalp, but Silver finds himself imagining how firmly he might, if he were here. How assuredly tactile he is with Silver, when they train together. Silver could slip out of his mind and let Flint work.

Silver’s not unfamiliar with touch, exactly. He has been touched a little _too_ much for his liking, since Charles Town. Howell tending to him like a house plant; the slaps and hugs from the men, who gift him with more whores than he pleases in some misguided assurance that their beloved Quartermaster is not half a man in every way. And now, Madi, who for reasons Silver can’t quite fathom seems inclined to spend the occasional night in his arms. It’s not unwelcome, but it’s complicated. Every touch has strings attached: Silver imagines them literally, tugging on him and tangling him with others. That’s what Silver shies away from: not the touches, but the _expectations._

Flint has expectations, of course: sooner or later he will pry about Silver’s past again. But they are never communicated by touch: with his hands, Flint only seeks to move Silver’s body from one position to another. If Madi were washing his hair, she’d be asking questions, probing for the sensitive parts of his skull that made him groan in pleasure. Flint, instead, would find them incidentally as he sought for sand. And Silver could rest his head in Flint’s lap and for one split fucking second of his life he could just _be._

Silver yanks a lock of hair, grounding himself in the present. He combs his fingers through one more time, coming away clean. He uses his discarded shirt to squeeze his hair dry, rubbing vigorously.

He’d been thinking of Madi, and what she’d do if she were here tonight. That’s why his cock is half-hard. He shakes the last of the water from his hair, grinding the heel of his hand over his groin until the temptation dissipates. Sighing, he drags himself into the bed and lands collapses on it. At least he remembers to roll from the knee to the thigh as he does it, chin tucked in like Flint’s finger is pressing it down.


	6. Chapter 6

Silver’s body should be a patchwork of bruises, but he awakens to find the aches are only a dull humming under his skin. He concedes that there must be something to Flint’s technique of falling, after all.

So instead of waking up to the pangs of his leg, or a curling hunger in his belly, or rolling the wrong way on bruised flesh, he wakes up with sunlight tickling his face. It sneaks through the thatched palm leaves that form the walls of his shack. In half an hour, the valley will be filled with sunshine and the open side of his abode that overlooks the jungle will be too bright for Silver to doze any longer. He rolls onto his back and sprawls on the mattress—had the princess ordered him a larger one, knowing she’d be making use of it? He doubts all the pirates are so generously accommodated—and stares at the ceiling.

Flint had helped build these shacks. At first Silver thought it was a gesture of goodwill to the Queen, but when other Walrus men were put to work, it had quickly become apparent that Flint had genuine ability as a carpenter. He’d managed to impress the Maroons’ head of construction, an enormous woman who spoke only French and Fula and made magnificent cabinets—Silver has one in the corner of the room. The shacks are simple but comfortable, dotting the hillside a short walk from the main village.

Silver has three walls, a cabinet, and a bed he can only touch the edges of with his arms spread. He has never in his life had that much all to himself. Waking up alone, with the sun on his face and the echoes of a shapelessly pleasant dream in his head, is a feeling to be savoured. He’s still vaguely aroused from the dream, warmth throbbing in his veins. He palms himself and hums in pleasure: the jungle will swallow the sound. His head lolls on the pillow and his cock stirs. There’s no rush to decide if he wants to come before he gets up, or let the feeling ebb out like the tide. His limbs are loose from yesterday, and the days before: his body is acclimatising itself to Flint’s training, not tired anymore but well-worn. The tension that claws its way up from his left knee cannot find a tight nerve to pester him with: the general ache of training is too well-balanced through every muscle. So the knee hurts: it has never stopped hurting, but it has transformed from a scream to a mumble, not loud enough to drown out the simmering arousal that woke him.

He doesn’t chase the memory of the dream: he has never been liked the ones he remembers. If his mind gifts him a few blissful hours of nothing, he’ll not go searching to fill them. He savours the rest, stroking his cock and drifting into the same state he enters on the cliffs. He’s an instrument, not thinking but feeling, his world centred on movement and contact. It’s so good, he thinks as his cock fills, and he hears _good_ in Flint’s voice. The flitting of Flint’s eyes and the flare of his nostrils as he appraises Silver’s technique; the deep breath he takes that fills his chest, the thatch of red hair darkened by sweat and revealed beneath his damp shirt when he finds Silver’s growth satisfactory.

The orgasm rolls through Silver with no warning, leaving him breathless and boneless. He tries to chase the train of thought that led him here, but the morning heat is beginning to rise and lures him in with promises of a quarter-hour more sleep, of a puzzle he can put down for another day, like the hidden drawer in that magnificent cabinet that Flint had admired when the Fula woman brought it over.


	7. Chapter 7

There’s simplicity to being instructed, a way to hand over control without sacrificing it. Silver can immerse himself in the movement, let instruction flow from Flint’s voice to his muscles without question, ulterior motive, or the fear of letting go. He is not Long John Silver, Pirate King, or any of his other names. He is only _good,_ or _again._

Flint is a patient teacher, except when Silver tries to cut corners. Then he lets his disappointment show, stinging Silver worse than a nick from the sword. On those days, Flint drills him harder, until Silver is too exhausted to do anything clever. They hardly talk, those sessions. Silver can’t tell if it’s a punishment or a blessing: no questions about his past, no rapport, nothing but noises of exertion like a pair of beasts. Just his blood ringing in his ears and Flint’s shirt stained to his waist.

It’s not one of those days. It’s one where their sparring unfolds like a dance, and Silver’s rhythm is on the beat for once. Foot, crutch, sword, so different from the tune of peg-and-boot that’s been stuck in his head so long. But it is sticky and hot, as they increase the tempo without losing their flow. They’re both panting, Silver’s face burning and Flint’s dripping. But they don’t stop—that’s always the problem, isn’t it—they don’t stop. Flint’s blade weaves toward Silver, threatening to end this song of theirs with a victory cut, but Silver has learned. He’s learned so much, the way Flint moves and the little tricks he uses, the space between breaths. Silver twists, wrist supple and snaking, until it’s Flint’s blade curving away and pulling from his grip to land uselessly in the sand. So it is not swords that meet, in this step of the dance, but the bulk of Flint’s weight crashing into Silver’s chest. Silver arcs, as he’s been taught, letting most of the impact glance off him. Flint ends up with a hand on Silver’s hip, bunching into the shirt as an anchor, and Silver has to pivot on the crutch to stop them both falling in a heap. Silver’s gasp of surprise fills his senses with the smell of Flint, a ripe musk that Silver recognises, but never so strong.

Flint corrects himself, releasing Silver’s shirt carefully.

‘Water?’ Silver suggests.

This close, something unusual flashes in Flint eyes. Silver spots a hint of yellow in the left iris, a curious sharpening of the inner corners.

‘Water,’ he agrees, and Silver hears it. The difference. His own voice lilted, the _r_ trilling on the tip of his tongue. Flint says it like an Englishman, a flat vowel at the end. Not like he’s correcting Silver, but confirming in his own tongue.

A different tongue, one Silver thought he spoke perfectly. But Flint caught him.

Flint ducks to retrieve the flask and offers it to Silver first. Silver swigs, his head tilted back, as if he can wash down his elongated vowels and the _r_ he didn’t drop. He used to hate the way London squashed his tongue, forcing words through his nose.

He pulls the spout from his lips and raises the flask, welcoming the shock of cold across his face. It chases the flush from his cheeks, trickling through his beard and down his throat like a caress. Droplets meet at his clavicle, pooling before they slither over his chest. He shakes like a wet dog, opening his eyes to see he’s sprayed Flint. He passes the flask to Flint, then shifts his weight to tug his shirt over his head.

When Silver’s free of the shirt, Flint is still drinking. Flint’s throat constricts around the heavy swallows of water he takes, his eyelashes catching the sun in a way that suggests he’s peering at Silver. He finishes the flask and splashes the last of it into his palm, rubbing it over the fuzz of his skull. Is it course? Velvety? Silver imagines reaching out to check, a slip of the hand so tempting after a slip of the tongue.

Flint doesn’t speak right away, assessing Silver’s state. He’ll ask if Silver’s ready to continue, or if he’s overheated. But Flint just grins.

‘You’re improving,’ he comments.

‘That’s your doing more than mine,’ Silver settles himself back on the crutch.

‘A collaboration,’ Flint concurs. ‘I haven’t trained a man like this in a long time. I wasn’t sure...’

‘Wasn’t sure it’d take?’ Silver smirks.

‘Wasn’t sure I could teach you,’ Flint says. ‘The Navy trains discipline into a man until it’s instinct. But you’ve got your own kind of discipline, don’t you?’

Silver’s carelessness has always been a highly crafted performance. When the smallest slip—or no slip at all—was corrected with a fist to the ear, he learned to be cautious while appearing lax. He’s spoken to Madi of those appearances, and the struggle of keeping them up.

‘Suppose I do,’ Silver shrugs around the crutch.

He’s been putting things aside. Letting masks drop as he trains: the two-legged quartermaster, the English accent, the drive for nothing but gold. It’s too much to hold at once, when he has a sword and a crutch in each hand. It exposes him to Flint, much more than a discarded shirt does, leaving him more vulnerable than a sword to the throat.

Flint smiles at him, the odd sort of smile he gets when he’s indulging Silver’s idiosyncrasies. Silver doesn’t put his shirt back on.


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes Silver thinks he wouldn’t mind being suffocated alive. Certainly, if it were Madi’s thighs finishing him off, he’d go out happy. He’s got his arms wrapped around each of her legs and his face buried between. She rocks and flexes above him, fucking herself on his tongue. Silver can hardly breathe, his nose full of hair and his mouth full of slickness, gasping intermittently when she lifts away from him and groaning every time she crashes back down. She echoes when he sucks on her clit, pulling her between his lips and keeping the pressure tight until she shivers and withdraws. Then he licks and licks and licks, savouring the taste of her and feeling her swell on his tongue. His cock is hard against his belly, ignored and exposed, leaking every time she undulates and growls above him.

His arms twinge from training. Flint ran him ragged again: lessons in falling backwards without breaking his spine, crumpling at Flint’s feet over and over. Then Flint had tested his speed, whittling away at Silver’s defences. His upper arm has a few nicks from Flint’s sword, and they sting with reminders as he clutches Madi.

Madi bucks into his mouth and he moans against her. She’s already come once up there, but she tends to drag two or three from him before she climbs off. Silver bounces his hips uselessly against the bed, knees curling the way they had during training, his mouth buried in Madi and his thoughts drifting.

They drift back to Flint. With every muscle loosened by Flint’s regime, the pleasure of devouring Madi’s cunt seeps through Silver’s every nerve. There’s this way they both have with him, putting him back in his body when he’s stuck in his head, makinguse of him when he feels useless, knocking him flat on his back whenever they please. It’s hard not to think of Madi, when she’s occupying most of his face, but his cock is straining desperately for touch and it’s Flint’s hands he’s been watching all day, Flint’s chest heaving with effort, Flint’s mouth falling open with harsh breaths, Flint’s sweat when he’s in Silver’s space, Flint’s weight bearing down on him and _oh,_ oh _no—_

He’s overthinking it, stuck under Madi with his mind free to wander. He’d never considered Flint this way before, when Flint was the ruthless, heartless Captain. Silver has spent so long insinuating himself into Flint’s narrative, that he’s forgotten his strategy and begun to believe the story.

His fingers dig into Madi’s thighs as he remembers that night before the battle. He’d compared himself to Flint’s lovers. He’d implied that he—god, Madi tastes good—that he was among those lovers. Is he slipping himself into this new role in Flint’s life, now he knows it exists to be played? That a man has played it before? Silver is no Thomas Hamilton, and has no illusions about becoming him. But what does Flint look like, in love? What does Flint look like when he—

Silver’s cock pulses suddenly and he comes untouched, white heat tearing through him, his blood roaring in his ears. He’s clutching Madi and gasping, his voice vibrating against her tender flesh. She trembles, a stuttered hissing emerging from between her teeth as she pulls hard on his hair and comes a second time. Fluid trickles down his throat and he swallows like he’s drinking from her, keeping them pressed together as her hands unclench and she relaxes, petting his face until they’re ready to part.

Silver doesn’t open his eyes right away, letting Madi swing her leg over his neck and settle down beside him first. Her gaze drags over his body to find his spent cock, and she utters a small ‘hm’ at it.

This is when the princess grants him audience: while he’s breathless and dazed, his lips still salty from her cunt. This is when she decides to ask him questions.

‘So,’ she props herself on her elbows. ‘How’s Flint?’

Silver tilts his head, frowning at her. ‘Flint?’

‘Yes,’ Madi speaks slowly, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Your Captain.’

Silver blinks rapidly, trying to figure out how this conversation started.

‘I don’t know, how did he look? I haven’t seen him since dinner. Why do you…?’ he glances down at the spattering of come across his belly, and Madi catches him.

Her eyebrows quirk like they do when she’s being clever. ‘You usually want to discuss him.’

‘I…’ Silver isn’t sure he can deny it. ‘What, now?’

She nods loosely. Silver’s eyes dart around the room, like something is going to offer him an answer.

‘I don’t think I have anything to say,’ he stammers. ‘About Flint. Right now.’

She sighs, but her smile is fond. Her fingertip presses on his forehead, rubbing away a scowl he hadn’t realised was there. He heaves a lungful of air, trying to get his bearings in the conversation. But it seems to be over: Madi is dressing again, pulling her shift on and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

‘Goodnight?’ Silver offers. She leans in for a short kiss—her kisses are always short—and snuffs out the candle by his bed.

Then Silver is alone again, in this oversized bed of his. And all he has left to think is:

_Oh, no._


	9. Chapter 9

Once the idea has surfaced in Silver’s mind, it refuses to be ignored. It’s like an itch under his skin, leaving him irritable all morning with no means to scratch. He looks at his hands and expects to find them red and inflamed, the evidence there for anyone to see. All his life he’s kept secrets: really, what’s one more? But desire like this, something so powerful for someone who knows him so intimately, desire for a man? He‘s never had this before. He doesn’t know where to hide it. He doesn’t know _how_.

Meeting Flint on the cliffs, looking at him and _seeing_ him, is almost too much. His face, his chest, his hands, his thighs, all things Silver has looked at every day, are suddenly new and captivating, full of possibilities Silver can now vividly imagine.

‘Morning,’ Flint says. Did he always smirk so? Has he something to be smug about?

‘Morning,’ Silver answers. Does he always echo Flint so stupidly? Does his voice quaver?

Silver seats himself on a familiar rock and starts unbuckling the peg. It doesn’t require half as much concentration as he’s giving it, but he needs a distraction. Flint’s shadow is in the corner of his eye, standing patiently while Silver ties off the cuff of his trousers and gets the crutch settled in his grip. As he stands upright, waiting for his balance to settle, Flint moves closer. He offers Silver’s sword, hanging it between them from the tips of two fingers. Silver takes it, and his fingers catch along Flint’s. It’s a flash of heat and rough skin, fine hair and the ridges of knuckles, before Silver must catch the sword to stop it slipping, and get a proper grip on the handle.

Flint makes nothing of the touch. They touch every day, after all: Silver already knows the texture of Flint’s skin and the strength beneath it. Unless the revelation is written on Silver’s face, today must be no different to Flint. He acts familiar; pragmatic; not cold but no warmer than necessary, either. His actions betray nothing untoward, nothing that his skittish and sarcastic student might shy away from.

But how crafted is that air? Silver contemplates it as they begin with slow drills, warming up. Has Flint taught himself through caution and practice to conceal his desires? Is there a clear line to him between familiarity and intimacy? Does he pay it no mind because he has never considered Silver in such a way—so there is no longing to conceal?

A good explanation, but not one Silver likes. Either Flint hides something well, or has nothing to hide.

 _I am transparent to you,_ Flint had said to him. That, maybe, would be worse than anything: the possibility that Silver sees through him and there is simply nothing to see. But he also remembers how talented Flint is at _seeming unconcerned._

A thought better considered when he isn’t in the middle of a fight. Flint’s sword bites his forearm and Silver hisses.

‘You’re distracted,’ Flint notes.

‘Sorry,’ Silver mumbles, and adds: ‘Captain.’

And this time he _feels_ it, the thrill coursing through him like a gulp of buttered rum. There is nothing transparent about the quirk of Flint’s eyebrow, or the brief appraisal of the scratch in Silver’s arm. His fingers encircle Silver’s wrist, lifting the arm. Silver’s heartbeat is so strong that Flint surely feels it. The heat of him is impossible. Appearing to judge the wound shallow enough, Flint steps back. He doesn’t ask Silver what’s distracting him. He just raises his blade again, Silver’s blood shining on the tip of it, and waits for Silver to initiate the drill again.

Silver swings his sword and they move in their familiar rhythm. But Flint’s shirt is loose, hanging open, and Silver knows well enough when to block and when to strike that he can steal a glance. There’s a hint of pink among the shaggy orange that might be Flint’s nipple. Silver keeps Flint’s wrist in his peripheral vision, checking how it turns from defense to an attack. _That’s_ watching two places at once.

Or not. Flint pivots his sword and slaps Silver with the flat of it.

 _‘Ouch,’_ Silver whines, rubbing his flank. Somehow it smarts worse than the cut did.

Flint doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows do. His eyebrows twist into pure mischief and Silver opens his mouth to say something equally sarcastic.

Flint smacks him again.

The blood drains from Silver’s face so fast he gets dizzy. It rushes south, flooding around the stinging pulse that Flint’s strike has left behind. It also makes his cock swell.

Silver bites down hard on his lip, willing his body not to betray him. Luckily when he steals a glance at Flint, blurred by the threatening tears, Flint is watching his eyes.

The hypocrite.

They start again. Silver’s cock stays stubbornly half-mast, disguised by their frenetic movement. It remains that way the whole session, leaving Silver reeling. But he doesn’t fuck up again, he’s good, he’s _good,_ and _fuck_ if that doesn’t make him just as hard.

He wants Flint to hit him again. He’s getting messy but he can’t ask to stop, can’t think about anything else. This rhythm of theirs is unbreakable, a perfect moment, where nothing matters and nothing can happen, just Flint, so close, the heat and the musk and the strength of him—why won’t he _use_ it? He could knock Silver flat on the ground, send him sprawling and prone, tower over Silver in his wide stance. _Why_ won’t he? Silver is grinding his teeth, fighting harder, wishing Flint would retaliate.

Silver lunges and Flint easily avoids the sword: Silver had not aimed it anywhere near a target. The attack meets empty air, Flint weaving out of the way while Silver careens forward, his crutch skittering along the ground until he finds his balance. He’s barely standing, gasping, nerves tight everywhere. Steel rests on the back of his neck, slithering through the curls to make his skin prickle. Silver turns slowly and Flint doesn’t drop the sword, guiding it to follow Silver’s throat to rest under his chin. Silver’s pulse flutters. It must be obvious, as Flint nudges Silver’s jaw upwards with the cool metal.

The longer Flint doesn’t speak, the less air there is around them. It’s like the unbearable tension before a storm. Flint searches Silver’s face patiently, but he only finds submission. Silver doesn’t want to rebel, finally, doesn’t want to press and push and tear away the infuriating opacity Flint has suddenly acquired.

 _Can’t you see it?_ Flint had asked him when they started all this.

Silver meets Flint’s gaze, forcing himself not to stare at the ground in deference. Flint is peering at him: not the kind of prying frustration he showed over Silver’s past, but curiosity. A breath escapes Silver, and it fogs the mirrored surface of the sword.

Flint tilts the blade so the sharp edge rests on Silver’s pulse. Silver shudders. He imagines the movement quivering down the blade, into the hilt in Flint’s hand.

‘Tomorrow,’ Flint says. His voice is huskier than usual.

‘Yes, Captain,’ Silver answers. His voice is worse.


	10. Chapter 10

Flint doesn’t suffer deliberate mistakes. Silver quickly learns when he can push his luck, and when Flint doesn’t have the patience. He learns which errors will earn a thwack with the flat of the blade, and which will cause Flint to pinch his nose and adjourn for the day. He learns how many times he can be rapped in a session, and he counts the strikes as preciously as jewels, savouring each, guessing which will be the day’s last.

He has a problem.

The day grows long, the sun shifting low , to Flint’s advantage. They’re sparring, really sparring, not just drilling or focusing on a technique. Silver is damp with sweat, squinting as the light catches like fire on their blades. Flint aims an ungentlemanly kick at Silver’s crutch and Silver decides to let it sweep him off his feet.

He used to fall accidentally. Surely that’s progress.

He tumbles the way Flint taught him, slapping the ground and letting the impact roll along his body. But he lands in a way where his thighs sprawl—the effect is admittedly not the same when one leg ends abruptly—in a way that invites Flint to step between them.

Flint does, but the moment he does, the pain of falling radiates through Silver. He groans—not the seductive and vulnerable kind he’d been planning, but a genuine articulation of the sudden discomfort of having tried to fall more seductively than safely. Flint is a silhouette lit in gold, every inch the avatar of flaming vengeance, while Silver plays the prone conquest beneath him. How easily Flint could just _take_ him, kick his thighs further apart and tear his clothes apart with sword and fists and claim Silver right there in the dirt.

It is a desperate, unseemly, _obvious_ longing, and the flash of heat Silver feels from it is chased by a flood of humiliation. Flint pities him. How can he not, when Silver acts so pitifully? This is a pantomime of desire for him, Silver a puppet dancing on uneven strings, showing his belly as quickly as a stray dog hoping for scraps.

He’d take scraps.

Flint sinks into a crouch, no longer the conqueror. He reaches for Silver’s face, and hesitates. Silver keeps still, save for his mouth falling open as he sucks in a breath. Flint finishes the movement, catching a stray bundle of curls and getting them out of Silver’s face. Flint’s eyebrows draw together, a muscle in his cheek twitching. When has Silver seen that before? He suddenly can’t recall.

The back of Flint’s hand sweeps Silver’s forehead, and Silver’s eyes fall closed. He hadn’t realised how damp his skin was. Flint’s knuckles are blessedly dry.

‘We’re done,’ Flint murmurs.

‘No,’ Silver pleads. _Fuck,_ he is so fucking _weak._

‘For today,’ Flint reassures him. His fingers reappear under Silver’s chin, tilting his head up gently. ‘Silver. You’re exhausted.’

Flint speaks it into existence. Every muscle complains from the awkward fall, from the hours, the weeks, of gruelling practice. Silver tries to nod, chin pressing into Flint’s fingertips.

‘Here,’ Flint offers. His touch moves to Silver’s right arm, one hand gripping Silver’s shoulder and the other his elbow. Flint coaxes the joints to loosen and stretch. Flint’s thumb presses into a nerve and Silver whines, his fingers unclenching through no will of his own. Flint keeps working the joint patiently, digging for the tenderest bundles of nerves. Each jolt of pain is subsumed by relief, until Flint is working over Silver’s knuckles, flexing and extending each finger. Their palms press together for a moment, Flint clasping Silver’s hand and rotating their wrists slowly. Silver feels the tightest parts, the angles of attack and defense, singing until they crack. _The past tense._

Flint moves to the other arm. This time he focuses on the palm, moving carefully around the callus Silver has developed from the crutch’s handle. Then a series of kneading touches work their way up, until Flint’s thumb finds a nerve in Silver’s armpit that makes Silver yelp.

‘Good?’ Flint asks, and he almost looks amused. The thumb grinds down Silver’s ribs and the pain is visceral. Silver mewls, wanting to squirm away, but the moment the pressure is gone he’s like clay in Flint’s hands. Silver grunts, and Flint seems to take it as the _yes_ it should be.

Flint keeps going. He finds each pinched joint in Silver’s sides, reaching around to Silver’s back and getting into all the places where Silver’s spine feels like a corkscrew. All the places he compensates for the missing limb, all the aching parts that he’s fallen on; Flint finds them effortlessly. Everything tender and sore, every weak spot: Silver should recoil at how obvious they are to Flint, how quickly this reduces him to a whimpering mess. But the relief is undeniable, and with Flint touching him everywhere, Silver can’t bring himself to care. If this is how Flint sunders his defenses—if this is how Flint will touch him—Silver will take it.

Flint makes something in Silver’s lower back click and Silver blurts out: ‘Oh, _please.’_

Flint only huffs a laugh, moving on to Silver’s thighs. He can’t be ignorant of the effect it’s having on Silver. The span of his hand is so close to Silver’s groin, that if he shifted a few inches in he’d be cupping Silver’s hard cock.

There’s not enough room for air in Silver’s lungs. Flint _has_ to see, he has to _know,_ he can’t be kneeling between Silver’s legs and stretching his thighs apart and massaging them without seeing what it does to Silver.

Silver can smell his own arousal. He searches Flint’s face for a twitch of his nose, a flicker of his eyes, _anything_ to confirm Silver has not gone completely fucking mad.

Then he can’t smell anything because he can’t _breathe._ He has to break this ridiculous tension, because if he gets any harder his cock is going to leak and stain through and if the bulge isn’t obvious that will be and if Flint stops touching him Silver thinks he might die. And he tries to say _Flint_ but only bites down on his lip, and he gasps for air and tries to speak again and the word that comes out is: _‘Captain.’_

‘Better?’ Flint asks. Gravel would sound smoother.

Silver blinks rapidly, shivering as Flint’s touch softens and slips over his knees. Gentle, toward the wound, not quite gingerly but cautious. A sudden reminder that Silver is ruined in other ways, that Flint is thinking of a severed limb, not Silver’s infatuation. His cock flags, and, well, Silver can’t help but think it was an effective strategy.

Flint taps Silver’s legs decisively, as if it’s all over. He sits back on his heels, pulling his own arm across his body to stretch it. His neck cracks as he twists from side to side. Silver fidgets, as if to lean forward and ease Flint’s tension the way Flint had eased his own, but he’s too loose: the jerking puppet with its strings cut slack.

‘The princess has taken a liking to you,’ Flint comments. Silver bites his tongue before he asks: _Why the fuck are you both like this?_

‘It seems so,’ Silver agrees.

‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ Flint says. ‘And you’re an appropriate choice.’

‘Really?’ Silver frowns. He’s been asking himself that the whole time.

‘A Princess and a King,’ Flint smiles. ‘It’s a clever match.’

‘You haven’t asked if I like her,’ Silver points out.

Flint chuckles. He extends one leg and leans on it, which makes his thigh look magnificent. ‘I don’t need to. It’s obvious.’

The position also reveals the line of Flint’s cock in his trousers. Silver struggles to think about Madi. He struggles to think.


	11. Chapter 11

Silver stops making mistakes: he can’t afford to. Flint’s eyes are too keen, noticing when Silver has advanced enough to get creative. It means Silver’s next fall isn’t deliberate. Flint closes in with an arcing blow and Silver twists frantically to block. He can’t deflect Flint’s momentum so he channels it, his crutch hooking around to sweep Flint‘s legs from under him.

Silver’s properly-executed roll is interrupted by the full weight of Flint crashing onto him. The impact makes them grunt, chest-to-chest, Flint’s hands planting either side of Silver’s head. His knee has landed mercifully between Silver’s, and Silver grabs Flint’s waist instinctively. The fight is still in his veins: he imagines drawing a dagger before he thinks of anything else. Flint’s as winded as Silver, chest heaving like a bellows, breath hot on Silver’s face. Silver could tilt his head and their noses would brush.

‘Very good,’ Flint murmurs.

Flint pushes himself up, allowing Silver space. Silver only follows, propping himself on his elbows. The movement causes his thigh to shift, dragging along Flint’s groin.

If he hadn’t been so close, maybe he wouldn’t have heard the stuttering of Flint’s breath. Maybe he wouldn’t feel the Flint’s cock twitch from the contact.

‘Captain?’ Silver swallows.

_‘What?’_ it’s hardly a word, just air, between them, so little air.

Silver quashes every survival instinct clamouring to stop him from speaking.

‘Say it again.’

‘Good work,’ Flint says, with perfect sincerity. ‘You did well.’

Nothing could disguise the shudder that courses through Silver. His hips tilt up, grinding his cock against Flint.

Then Flint gets up, dusting himself off like nothing unusual has happened. He offers a hand to Silver, and Silver can’t think of anything to do except take it, drawn to Flint like a compass to North.


	12. Chapter 12

He behaves himself for a whole week. Rigorous training sessions are interspersed with strategy meetings, quartermasterly duties, and nights bringing himself off remembering Flint’s cock pressing down on him and _You did well_ ringing in his ears—on nights he isn’t visited by the Princess. It’s Madi’s suggestion, made when he has to roll off her with a yelp after his leg twinges from a more ambitious position. He’s swearing at himself, cock flagging, while Madi takes three of his fingers and guides them into her, hardly a break in her rhythm.

It’s Madi’s suggestion, so there’s nothing ulterior to it.

‘There’s a spring,’ Silver says at the end of his next session with Flint. ‘In the crook of the mountains.’

‘There is?’ Flint is shrugging his jacket back on. With the sun hidden behind the clouds all day, their sweat-soaked clothes become rapidly chilly after training.

‘A hot spring,’ Silver clarifies. ‘Madi told me there’s a path along the ridge.’

‘Good idea,’ Flint says.

He’s looking at the peg, which Silver is carrying in his left hand. Since there’s no sense putting it back on if he’s not going back to the village yet, he hitches the crutch under his left arm and sets off in the direction of the ridge. Flint follows Silver’s lead to the ridge. Picking out the path with his crutch takes most of his concentration, and Flint doesn’t offer much conversation as distraction. They descend into the jungle and Silver almost gets lost before Flint says:

‘Left. You can hear the water.’

The earth is slippery, and Flint comes up abreast of him, a steadying weight on his right side. They pick their way through the narrow track until the sound of bubbling water is distinct from the rustling bushes. A mound of pitted rocks give way to a series of pools, nestled safe from the wind. Flint sighs just looking at them.

Silver is busy mapping out how the fuck he’s actually meant to down there. There are grooves in the stone from others using the pools, but nothing he’d confidently put his crutch in.

Stupid. His throat tightens, involuntary tears pricking the corner of his eyes. A stupid idea: why didn’t he think of the rocks? Of how foolish he’d look skidding down them and breaking his only ankle? Of undressing and exposing the wreck of his body to Flint? He’d been so preoccupied by the excuse to have Flint naked in repose, he didn’t even think.

Flint clicks his tongue. Then he starts shedding his clothes, laying them on a rock. He’s entirely unselfconscious: Silver has, in vague recollections of his recovery on the warship, seen Flint undress. Flint has similarly seen Silver in far more vulnerable states than he is now. They’re seamen, and pragmatists: nothing about this should be different, except that by some irrational, invisible shift in Silver’s mind, it _is._

‘Come on,’ Flint nods at him, then taps his own shoulder. ‘Use me.’

Silver swallows the lump in his throat and hurriedly rids himself of his jacket. He drops the peg in the dirt and lets Flint take the crutch as he pulls off his shirt, then trousers. They get caught on his boot. He sits down on the rock, his grip tight on Flint’s arm as he lowers himself, and wrestles the boot off. That’s everything.

Flint keeps his limbs available for grabbing as Silver clambers upright. It’s a small mercy that hobbling down to the water’s edge with Flint takes every ounce of his focus, so he doesn’t have to think about how foolish he must look, or where he’d rather be touching Flint.

Flint gasps softly when he steps into the water. Silver is close enough to hear it. Steam curls on the surface like a cauldron. Silver lowers himself down until he’s sitting on the shore. He dips his toes in groans. It’s as hot as a bath, but the size of ten—no, a hundred baths.

Flint is wading in ahead of him. Now Silver can appreciate the view: Flint’s thighs are in front of Silver’s face, thick with muscle and fluffy red hair. Flint’s ass has filled out decently since the doldrums, as soft and round and fuzzy as a peach. Silver could take a bite.

He wriggles forward with a mind to do so, easing himself into the water. The scarring skin of his left leg stings briefly from the heat, then the overwhelming relief of floating overpowers everything. Silver slumps forward, sloshing water in Flint’s direction. Flint turns, a lazy smile on his face when he sees Silver neck-deep. He sinks more gradually, his waist disappearing, turning to face Silver and swimming slowly backwards as he immerses his chest. He unleashes a long, satisfied sigh before he speaks.

‘Must feel good on your leg,’ he comments.

‘Mmm,’ Silver agrees. He swims around the pool until he finds a ledge of rock at a height where he can sit. ‘Not sure I’m ever leaving.’

Flint walks slowly over to him. Silver was right: his nipples are a rosy pink, pert beneath the thick hair of his chest. Freckles are peppered densely on Flint’s shoulders, as if they were dusted onto him and he hasn’t yet brushed them off. Silver stares, the water blurring everything beneath its surface. He knows the contours of Flint’s body through endless practice, but not the colour, the texture, the detail. The warmth slows down his thoughts, so he’s less cautious in ogling Flint. Flint sits on the ledge beside him and Silver slumps companionably on Flint’s shoulder. His hair floats around him, tendrils of it creeping across Flint’s skin with far more courage than Silver possesses. Flint laughs: not a sound, but a pulse of his chest, gust of air on Silver’s scalp. His hand raises to catch an errant curl, lifting it out of the water. It slicks against Flint’s palm, and when he turns it over, it begins to coil around his finger.

It’s just as Silver imagined: no expectations, no agenda. Flint is simply curious, worlds away, both of them hidden in the quiet.

Silver rubs his hand down his left thigh, shoving away some of the tension as Flint had done giving him a rubdown. The water soothes the ache, and he grinds the heel of his palm into the muscle until he feels boneless. As he works his way around, his knuckles brush over Flint’s thigh. The response is immediate: Flint tenses, not flinching exactly, but not quite masking his reaction. Silver wants to transfer his touch over, as if beneath the surface they’re simply one body, extensions of each other. But they’re not: there is a simmering difference in the skin Silver touches that is not his own. The second brush is less accidental but plausibly deniable. Exploring, finding out what makes Flint’s heart beat a little faster against Silver’s ear. He could just reach over, get his hand around Flint’s cock, bring him off as easily as he has with shipmates in the past, without a word passed between them. That, at least, he knows how to do. But he finds he doesn’t want to: it would be too easy, over too quickly, with none of the push and the pull between them that Silver craves. He doubts Flint would agree to it, besides: the man takes everything far too seriously. Silver, were he to offer himself in such a way, would not be taken seriously.

_Oh,_ but the temptation. The tickling of tiny bubbles Silver has stirred from the hair of Flint’s thighs, wriggling up between them like the water is beginning to boil. The need he has for Flint to never ever let that curl of hair from his grasp.

He withdraws his hand and hears the quiet click of Flint’s lips parting. But Flint doesn’t speak: he slowly untangles his fingers from Silver’s hair. They are tilted toward each other, sitting not quite side-by-side on the ledge. Silver wedges a hand between their adjacent thighs and it makes Flint gasp—which makes Silver smile to himself—and launches off from the ledge, deeper out into the pool. He’s weightless, bobbing through the water with slow and lazy strokes. He hasn’t swum since losing the leg—hasn’t wanted to—but in the warm, still waters of the spring, he moves with ease. His head slips under the surface and he lingers there, suspended, breathless in the dark. He’s molten.

The water stirs around him and he surfaces. Flint has waded over: he doesn’t seem concerned that Silver’s trying to drown himself, just interested in exploring the depths with him. Flint tips himself back, staring up at the sky, sprawling until he’s floating on the surface like a contented bit of driftwood. It gives Silver a truly excellent view of everything he’s speculated over. Quite specifically, Flint’s cock.

Could he manage it? He’s never had anything thicker than the finger of an adventurous working girl, which admittedly made him see stars but was never an angle he could replicate by himself. Flint’s girth is significantly greater, and that’s soft. Well. Silver will have to get him hard and find out.

Another time. Silver is starting to feel like a frog in a saucepan, his fingertips getting wrinkly. He crawls up the shore until he’s in the shallowest part, turning over to sit in the inch-deep water. He’s so warm that the evening air is refreshing, the water still warm as it drips from him. He tips to one side, wringing his hair out, and waits for Flint to finish floating. The vapour is curling around him, and when he steers himself around with slow strokes, the ripples break against Silver’s sprawled legs.

In a few minutes, Flint has circled the pool and Silver is beginning to dry. Flint flips over and wades into the shallows. Like Silver, he’s languorous, a sleepy smile on his face as he emerges.

Then he chokes. Silver sits up in surprise as Flint is struck by a sudden coughing fit, pounding his chest with a fist before righting himself.

‘Alright?’ Silver asks, leaning forward like he can help somehow.

‘Fine,’ Flint answers, but Silver catches the split-second glance that Flint steals.

‘You’ve seen it before,’ Silver blurts out, looking down at his own cock to check it hasn’t changed.

Flint opens his mouth like he’s going to deny looking, then snaps it shut abruptly. ‘I said I’m fine.’

Silver’s not one to brag—well, he _is—_ but there’s a reason he prefers working girls who are adventurous. But he’s not going to push his luck: Flint’s his only way out of here, if he doesn’t want to be scrabbling naked through the dirt, so he drops the issue. He also drops his thighs a little wider, just to see the tic in Flint’s jaw.


	13. Chapter 13

‘I don’t think I’m getting it,’ Silver bats his eyelashes.

For what must be the twelfth time that day, Flint sighs. His nostrils flare and he thrusts his sword into the sand, circling to stand behind Silver.

‘Think of the tip of the sword,’ Flint says. ‘It enters below the ribs, so the hilt needs some distance. You’re using your height to come in low.’

Flint’s hand weighs on Silver’s shoulder, forcing him to widen his stance. The air between them feels electric: all day, the clouds have tumbled and darkened above them, but the storm hasn’t broken.

‘The wrist,’ Flint taps it. ‘Don’t let the blade control it or you’ll lose your grip. Guide it through the softest parts...’

His fingers encircle Silver’s wrist, rotating it gently.

‘... and when you find something that resists, you _twist.’_

‘You know a lot about how to get under a man’s skin,’ Silver murmurs. He leans back into Flint.

Flint snorts. ‘I’m teaching you how to disembowel someone.’

Silver turns, just enough that his cheek is an inch from Flint’s. His gaze falls to Flint’s mouth, to the way Flint’s canines point inwards in a permanent snarl.

Flint steps back, a scowl on his face. His jaw grinds he squints at Silver.

‘Does this often work for you?’ he asks.

‘Does what...?’ Silver’s eyes widen, but Flint just frowns harder. Silver looks away.

‘Playing the fool,’ Flint growls. ‘And everything else.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you—‘

‘—stop,’ Flint orders him. ‘I’m not that stupid, Mister Silver, and neither are you. If this is some... survival instinct, where you feel the need to prostrate yourself and flatter me to gain my trust... you don’t need to, alright? It’s alright.’

Silver opens his mouth to speak, and nothing comes out.

‘I will not take advantage of you,’ Flint says quietly. ‘I hope you won’t do the same of me.’

‘Wait...’ Silver pleads. He feels three steps behind in the conversation. ‘Take advantage of what?’

Flint glares at him. Finally, he answers: ‘My affection for you.’

It _would_ be a good strategy, Silver realises. If he’d thought of it.

‘I didn’t...’ he can’t think of a way to convince Flint that it’s the truth. Flint leans away, shoulders squared like they’re going to start sparring again.

Then the words actually hit Silver, and hit him so hard they’re going to knock him off the cliff and into the sea. _My affection for you._

‘You...?’ his tongue is about as useful as a brick in his mouth.

Flint shakes his head, one eyebrow raised skeptically, the beginning of a sneer. ‘Don’t.’

‘Please,’ Silver begs. For what, he doesn’t know, just that he can’t let go of all this when he’s only just found it. He _can’t_. ‘It wasn’t my intention…’

Flint glares, and maybe he sees Silver’s coyness has given way to genuine confusion.

‘If this is only a whim of yours,’ Flint says. ‘I am not going to indulge it.’

Silver reaches for him, and as fluid as they move together when they spar, Flint dodges back. Silver’s hand finds empty air. How can he ask Flint to trust him? That his intentions are… _what,_ exactly? Can he honestly say Flint is wrong?

‘Captain…’ he pleads, with nothing to follow.

 _‘Mister Quartermaster,’_ this time Flint looks disappointed in himself. ‘I don’t even know your real name, do I?’

The words die in Silver’s throat.

He doesn’t.


	14. Chapter 14

They fight: badly. The match the following day is tense and uncomfortable. Steel shrieks against steel and Silver’s wrist jars from each strike. Flint has barely spoken a word to him, and Silver nothing more than short responses. A raindrop lands on Silver’s face and he flinches as if he’s been slapped.

‘Enough,’ Flint says, and Silver shrinks before he realises Flint’s talking about the weather. ‘Visibility’s going. You don’t want to slip on the walk back.’

So Silver sheathes his sword and straps the peg back on, and they make their way down to the valley. Flint marches ahead, faster than Silver is comfortable with, but he’ll be damned if he says anything about it. The words _my affection for you_ feel further from reach than ever.

There are meetings in the afternoon, and Silver has to check in with the men. The bad mood seems contagious, and Silver snaps at Dooley for bickering with DeGroot. Flint sits at another table for dinner, although Silver keeps managing to catch his glare. The rain gets heavier but never properly breaks: fat drops smack down around Silver at minute-long intervals, just long enough for each one to surprise him. The wind sends the rain in sideways, so the trip to his hut takes twice as long as usual and only the front half of him is damp.

He throws himself on the bed, not bothering with a light. At some point he’ll take off his wet jacket, and the peg, and the boot, and everything else. But the wind gets louder and louder, and he’s still stewing over all the things he should have said and all the things he shouldn’t have done. He’s not going to sleep. He rehearses witticisms in his head that will let Flint dismiss the fumbling advances as a mistake. He tries saying his whole name to himself, and the wind is kind enough to drown it out. He settles on telling Flint the truth: that it _was_ a whim, a sudden and uninvited wanting with no sinister design behind it. Flint will think him a fool. And he _has_ been a fool, assuming Flint’s desire will mirror his own. Assuming that once Silver’s curiosity is satisfied, neither of them will be ruined by the aftermath.

But that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it? There’s no good way of escaping whatever they are now.

Could Silver say, honestly, that he would have stumbled across this feeling without knowing about Thomas? And does that cloud things? Silver chews his nails as he thinks back over that night. He had known, already, that there was _someone._ That Flint had a capacity in him to love as fiercely as he hated. And by sharing the story, Flint created a different relationship, one between himself and Silver. A relationship that has deepened and changed its nature, tarnishing in Silver’s hands. Wasn’t that always how it happened?

Silver’s going to build a tower of excuses if he stays here any longer. All any of them amount to are: _I’m like this._

He hauls himself off the bed and out the door. The rain has eased, but the wind is a gale, roaring through the jungle. Hints of light are visible from Flint’s hut, the last one up the hill. Leaves spiral around Silver as he makes his way along the path, treading carefully on the damp ground.

He almost turns back, and not just because of the weather. There’s nothing to say Flint is open to receiving guests. Everything comes so much easier when they’re training: maybe this is best left until morning.

But Silver’s not going to sleep without getting this off his chest, and Flint will beat him senseless tomorrow if he’s not well-rested. He stalks up to the door. At least, before knocking, he can check: if Flint has company, or he’s deep in a book, Silver will have reason not to disturb him. He peers through a gap in the slats.

Flint is not reading.

Flint is kneeling naked on the bed. He’s reaching back with one arm, the other braced on the wall. When Silver cranes his neck to see, he catches a glimpse of the glistening wooden tool that Flint is using to fuck himself. His cock is hard and proud and red against his belly.

He looks fucking _resplendent._

Silver can’t tear himself away from the scene. The wind is too loud for Flint to have heard his approach, and though Silver can see how Flint’s chest heaves, any sounds of pleasure are snatched away by the howling gale. Flint’s face is contorted, lips drawn tight over his teeth and his brow crinkled in concentration. He rises and falls roughly, giving Silver a good look at the size of the toy before he sinks down hard on it.

Silver is not a fool. He is a _fucking goddamn idiot._ He has been swooning and simpering like a bitch in heat when it’s _Flint—_ Silver’s cock throbs before he can finish the thought. If this is how Flint deals with the conflict between them; if _this_ is what Flint needs…

Flint could have asked. He could have _ordered_ Silver, and Silver would do absolutely anything. He would _be_ anything Flint told him to be.

Silver drags himself away from the door: he dreads the consequences if he were caught. The walk back to his hut is twice as difficult as the trip there, with his cock refusing to soften and foliage whipping in his face. He bursts through his door and doesn’t even undress before tugging his breeches down. Crashing face-first on the mattress, he wraps his fist around his cock, the image of Flint seared into his mind.

When he comes, the wind carries his shout away into the darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

There’s no perceptible change in Flint the next day. He’s still gruff after their confrontation, but not so brittle. He seems to sense that Silver’s eagerness to spar is not a means to avoid talking but to start rebuilding their lost rhythm. Silver hasn’t apologised—he’s still not sure how—but he tries to atone with obedience, performing every technique Flint has taught him as well as he can.

And he _has_ learned, striking and blocking, dodging and countering in tandem with Flint. His only error happens when he tries to gauge Flint’s stance, to guess whether last night’s activities has left any effects. But Flint seems as poised and comfortable as usual, from which Silver can only surmise Flint is well-practiced with the toy. The split second it takes him to think about the implications is the split second when Flint is able to disarm him with dizzying speed and elbow him solidly in the ribs.

It shoves an _oof_ from Silver, and he takes a moment to catch his breath. He doesn’t say _I deserved that,_ but he doesn’t complain, either. Flint scoops up Silver’s sword and offers it back. A sword can hardly be a peace offering, but Silver takes it.

The flow of their fighting takes control of Silver. The techniques are second nature to him now. He defends a complicated attack by rolling, crutch still in his grip as he whirls back upright with a tricky swing that Flint has to leap away from.

He speeds up, and the thrill of impressing Flint spurs him on. If he can prove he has apprenticed well, that he has become a worthy opponent, if he can best Flint at this then Flint might consider other ways Silver could take him.

Silver attacks, and Flint deflects the blade with a complicated snaking movement. They’re drawn closer as the hilts lock together. Silver tightens his grip, staring up at Flint as his wrist begins to ache from the pressure.

Flint bears down. He’s still stronger, still bigger, and he’s not letting Silver forget it. Silver holds out as long as he can, desperate to prove himself, but Flint doesn’t relent. Silver drops his sword, hissing, feeling his face redden.

‘Sometimes, your opponent will be stronger,’ Flint tells him.

Silver rotates his wrist until the feeling comes back. ‘Then what? I’m beaten?’

‘The trick is not to put yourself in a position you can’t handle,’ Flint suggests.

Silver blinks. He wants to say something about being able to handle it, but he also wants to ask Flint to shove him to the ground and claim him, which is an equally bad idea. What comes out of him is what always does, in the end: ‘Yes, sir.’

Flint smirks.

‘Whatever position you want me in, sir,’ Silver adds, with absolute sincerity.

Flint strokes his blade along Silver’s, steel hissing along steel, coaxing it up and ready for the next round.

‘That’s right,’ Flint says, the hint of a growl in his tone. Silver lets the pleasure suffuse him, shifting into place and being rewarded with Flint’s nod of approval.

The next time his wrist locks up, he savours it. But he whacks Flint in the shins with his crutch for good measure.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safety note: breathplay is dangerous in real life. Do not try this at home.

The knock on his door comes at sundown. It’s so hushed, Silver almost misses it.

‘Come in,’ Silver calls. He guesses it’s Madi, arriving earlier than usual: any of the men would announce themselves. He’s just taken the peg off, so he’s in no mood to get up and check.

‘It’s me,’ Flint announces as he slips through the door, closing it behind him. Silver cannot help but recall how he had almost knocked on Flint’s door the night before. How they might have had the conversation they need to have, if both of them hadn’t been thoroughly distracted by Flint getting fucked by a toy that must have been two inches thick.

‘Good evening,’ Silver says, with genuine warmth in his voice. He tries to push the images of last night from his mind.

Flint has visited before—not to mention he built the place. But he still looks around as though it’s unfamiliar to him. He’s is holding a small bottle in his hand.

‘I thought you might need—or want—this,’ Flint says, uncharacteristically hesitant. ‘The doctor in the village makes it. It’s an oil, for injured joints and bruises.’

‘You don’t have to get me things,’ Silver mutters, trying not to sound ungrateful. ‘I can take care of myself.’

Flint politely overlooks the time when Silver _couldn’t,_ stuck helpless in the warship’s cabin. They both remember.

‘I didn’t get it for you,’ Flint says, which should sound rude, but it doesn’t. ‘It’s mine. I couldn’t be doing this with you every day without it.’

It’s an admittance, between the words, that Silver has managed to hit Flint hard enough to hurt. That maybe Flint thinks about their matches—the physical reminders at least—when he’s alone. That this isn’t charity: it’s a gift.

‘That’s kind of you,’ Silver says. And it is.

‘Would you like me to leave it—’ Flint starts to ask, at the same time as Silver begins: ‘Why don’t you take a—’

They both stop. They both laugh quietly. Flint cocks his head with a wry smile, and pulls out the chair beside Silver’s bed.

‘I worked you hard today,’ Flint says. His knee is almost touching Silver’s: there’s not enough space in the hut for them to sit any further apart.

‘You work me hard every day,’ Silver retorts.

‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’ Flint asks. ‘If you wanted me to stop.’

‘Have you ever known me _not_ to complain?’ Silver deadpans.

‘Yes,’ Flint answers, glancing down at Silver’s leg.

‘I complain _to you,’_ Silver clarifies.

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Flint grins. ‘So? No complaints?’

‘My wrist still hurts like a bitch, and the right leg’s giving me grief,’ Silver makes a sardonic face. ‘You might have bruised my rib.’

’Is that all?’ Flint’s eyes twinkle.

’How much time do you have?’ Silver raises his eyebrows.

Flint laughs. ‘Take off your shirt.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Flint picks up the bottle, loosening the stopper. ‘You heard me.’

This time, there’s a hint of authority in his voice. Something snaps in Silver’s brain: the instinct that kicks in whenever they’re training. He pulls the shirt over his head, tossing it away. Flint is pouring oil on his hands, rubbing his palms together to warm it. The smell is faintly sweet.

Flint shuffles closer. He reaches for Silver’s hand, bringing it to his lap. Silver stares as Flint smooths oil across the palm, criss-crossing their fingers together until Silver’s hand is slick. Flint starts with the knuckles, squeezing and pulling each joint. He tugs the middle finger until it pops, and Silver jolts in surprise.

‘Good?’ Flint asks.

‘Yeah,’ Silver murmurs. Flint gets the index and ring fingers to pop, before moving on and digging his thumb deep into the hollow of Silver’s palm. Silver groans.

Flint is gentler with the wrist. He watches Silver’s face as he rubs on the tendons, checking which spot makes Silver react. Flint’s fingertips should be coarse, but the oil makes his touch softer, circling the nub of bone at the joint until Silver relaxes. The ache doesn’t go away entirely, but Flint soothes the worst of it, as attentive in treating the pain as he was inflicting it.

Flint’s touch grows firmer as he works his way up Silver’s arm, digging into the crook of the elbow and making Silver hiss as he untangles the tightness there. Then onto the upper arm, Flint’s grip wrapping around his bicep—it’s grown, Silver realises, from all the training. His pride at the realisation is interrupted suddenly by Flint pressing a nerve in his underarm. Visceral pain shoots from his skull to his hand, making his fingers curl unprompted.

He’s about to ask what the fuck that was, when Flint moves on to his chest. He grinds the heel of his hand along Silver’s pectoral, finding either by touch or memory the place he’d elbowed earlier. His touch becomes feather-light, disappearing for a moment as he drizzles more oil on his hand. In the time it takes, Silver leans forward, seeking contact again. Flint returns, splaying his palm across Silver’s sternum. Silver’s heart pounds so hard that Flint must feel it under the skin. A hint of pressure and Silver slows his breathing, staring as Flint’s hand rises and falls with his chest. The fingers stroke gently, until Silver is tingling with warmth, and the soreness from the blow is isolated in one spot. Flint centres his palm over it, as if he too can sense it, and can draw the pain out through his touch. They’re so close now, Silver can feel the heat of Flint’s breath on his face.

It would be so easy to kiss him. It would be so easy for Flint to press him down onto the bed and do it himself.

As the pain in his rib subsides, Flint spreads both hands over Silver’s torso. Fingers dig under his collarbones and Silver drops his chin, breathing, taking it in. Flint’s touch ghosts over his nipples, and he twitches involuntarily as they harden from a moment’s attention. Flint moves down, over his abdomen, smoothing away the residual tension there that builds up whenever Silver curls in on himself. For a heartbeat, Flint holds his hips. His grip is heavy enough that he could push or pull Silver however he wanted, but instead he slides up Silver’s waist, along his sides. It tickles enough to make Silver shiver. It draws a rumbling laugh from Flint, one Silver suspects he wouldn’t hear if there were more than an inch between them. Just like Silver catches the laugh, Flint must catch Silver’s whimper when Flint squeezes his shoulders again.

Then Flint’s hands are around his throat.

Silver’s pulse is fluttering now. He tries to concentrate on how Flint’s fingers are rubbing the knots around his spine, grinding pleasantly at the base of his skull. That might distract him from the thumbs pressed under his jaw, with just enough strength that Silver can’t quite breathe properly.

Silver has been staring at Flint’s eyes the whole time, watching as Flint has focused entirely on Silver’s skin. So he sees when Flint’s gaze finally drags its way up, over Silver’s throat and jaw and mouth. He sees Flint’s hooded, hungry expression as his lip trembles.

Flint tightens his grip, and the pressure shoots straight to Silver’s cock. How long has he been hard? Has Flint noticed?

Flint pushes a nerve in Silver’s neck and Silver can’t stop the whine that spills out of him.

‘You like it, don’t you?’ Flint murmurs. ‘Being touched like that. When it hurts.’

Silver tries to nod, chin pressing against Flint’s hands.

‘Say it.’

‘I like it,’ Silver’s voice is reedy.

‘You told me once that you didn’t like pain,’ Flint reminds him.

‘Said I was…’ Silver struggles to recall. ‘Sensitive to it.’

‘Hm,’ Flint smirks. He tilts Silver’s chin up curiously. ‘Such a way with words.’

Any tighter, and Flint is going to choke him. Any looser, and Silver is going to beg him.

 _‘Please,’_ Silver says.

‘Please what?’ Flint’s eyes have that trace of yellow again. It’s almost eclipsed by the black of his pupils in the candlelight.

Silver opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He reaches a hand and clamps it on Flint’s thigh, as steady as a rope strung up on the ship.

Flint leans into the touch, his eyebrow quirking in surprise. He starts to release Silver’s throat and Silver leans instinctively, insistently into the touch, urging him to stay. Flint does.

Flint’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He stares at Silver’s mouth. ’Tell me exactly what you think is going to happen between you and I.’

Something garbled and desperate escapes Silver, barely resembling words.

‘Mister Quartermaster,’ Flint’s voice has much steel in it as there is in his sword. ’That wasn’t a question. It was an order.’

 _‘Fuck,’_ Silver is shaking in Flint’s grip now. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. ‘I want you, Captain.’

Flint keeps watching expectantly.

‘I want you to… to touch me,’ he confesses.

’I am touching you,’ Flint points out.

‘I want you to tell me what to do,’ Silver pleads. And now he’s started, he cannot stop. ‘To hold me down, to make it hurt. I want you to claim me.’

‘Is that all?’ there’s amusement in Flint’s voice.

‘Fuck!’ Silver pulls the fabric of Flint’s breeches in frustration. Flint has not let go of his throat. ‘I want to fuck you. Like you do with that wooden toy.’

Flint’s eyes darken, as black as a shark’s. ‘You’ve been watching me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Silver begs, tears spilling over. ‘I didn’t mean—‘

‘There will be consequences,’ Flint tells him.

‘I want them,’ Silver insists.

‘Then keep going.’

‘I want you to use me like that. I want to be…’

‘What do you want to be?’

‘Yours. Your toy,’ Silver’s face heats. But Flint looks pleased, and the knowledge that Flint is pleased with him overpowers the humiliation.

‘My toy?’ Flint examines him, touch slipping into Silver’s hair. One hand comes up to cup his jaw. Silver leans into it, sure he would collapse without it.

‘Just… yours,’ Silver says. ‘I want to be the thing that makes you feel good.’

Silver closes his eyes, swallowing. Flint brushes his cheek in encouragement.

‘I want to be what you make me,’ he breathes. ‘I want to make you happy.’

And that, somehow, is harder to admit than all the rest of it put together.

Flint doesn’t respond. The circles he was making at the nape of Silver’s neck stop.

‘I would like to kiss you,’ Silver opens his eyes, afraid suddenly that Flint will pull away. ‘Please, Captain.’

Flint’s smile is surprised, almost puzzled. How that can be, when their mouths are so close it seems impossible that anything else could happen, Silver doesn’t know.

He thinks, maybe, he should have started with that. Weeks ago.

Silver surges forward, mouth crashing onto Flint’s. Flint groans against his lips, hand tightening quickly in Silver’s hair to take control of the kiss. Silver’s mouth falls open at the sting, and Flint’s tongue finds its way inside. It’s open and wet and furious, and Flint bites at every possible opportunity. Silver tastes copper as Flint nips at him, and he chases Flint’s mouth for more, whining. His hands have bundled themselves in Flint’s shirt, both of them wrenching each other closer. Silver gasps for air, feeling how his lip is already beginning to swell from a bruise, and sinks himself back into Flint’s mouth anyway. It’s Flint who finally breaks free, yanking Silver back by the hair and breathing heavily.

‘Did that feel like a whim?’ Silver asks, licking the blood from his lips.

‘You’re not _that_ good a liar,’ Flint grins.

He hasn’t let go of Flint’s shirt: it’s been wrenched loose from Flint’s belt with all Silver’s tugging. He keeps pulling on it, until Flint lets it slip over his head to join Silver’s shirt on the floor. Silver stills, captivated by the expanse of Flint’s shoulders. He’s seen them before, of course, but now he’s _allowed_ to look. He bends unconsciously, to brush his lips over the freckles. Flint sighs, his nose trailing over Silver’s hairline as he watches Silver take it in. Silver reaches to pluck the rosy-pink nipples he’s only glimpsed before, and Flint’s hand reappears on Silver’s chest, pushing him back. Silver gasps like he’s been caught thieving. Flint is peering at him, testing Silver’s obedience. Silver resists for a moment, just to feel Flint increase the pressure, then lets himself be pushed down onto his back. Flint doesn’t stop when Silver hits the mattress, and this time the heel of his hand against Silver’s sternum is forceful, not letting Silver take a full breath, beginning to hurt. Silver swallows thickly, staring up at Flint. Flint’s eyes are tracing over all of him, taking in his expression, his sprawled pose, his cock tenting in his breeches, his heel beginning to wriggle restlessly against the mattress. His fingers, twisting into the sheets as he fights the urge to touch Flint without permission. Flint is standing over him, towering as he moves from the chair to kneel on the bed beside Silver, a solid weight dipping the mattress—a heavier one keeping Silver planted there.

Flint hums, as deep as a lion purring. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

‘Whatever you want,’ Silver pleads, chin tilted up in earnest.

Flint raises his eyebrows. ‘That goes without saying, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Silver squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Captain.’

‘Better,’ Flint says, and the warmth of the praise flushes through Silver. He knows he’s shivering, and he knows Flint can feel it. Flint releases the pressure and Silver gasps. His fingertips map Silver’s chest and upper arms, knuckles trailing over Silver’s stomach as they would when he’d remind Silver to keep his core tight.

‘I can see it, you know,’ Flint comments. ‘The work I’ve put into you.’

Silver feels like he’s glowing. Then he yelps, curling up, as Flint pinches hard on both his nipples. Flint shoves him flat again, hands steadying Silver’s shoulder and stomach until he can trust Silver will stay still. Then he goes back to teasing, tweaking on each nipple until they’re pebbled, then soothing them until the lightest touch stings. Flint traces to Silver’s sides, and Silver tries not to twitch and squirm in spite of how much it tickles. Flint trails from his waist to his underarms, and his fingers feel rougher now. Silver clenches his jaw, ordering himself to let Flint in. He lets go of the sheets and Flint starts guiding his arms up, until they’re over his head. Finally, Silver’s wrists meet and Flint grips them together, squeezing.

‘Do you want to be bound?’ Flint asks, his voice low, almost hushed.

Silver hesitates. He flexes his wrists, and Flint’s hold loosens.

‘I won’t, unless you ask,’ Flint tells him.

‘Do it,’ Silver says, even as Flint searches his face for doubt. ‘Just don’t tie it to anything.’

The suggestion satisfies Flint. He picks up Silver’s shirt, twisting it efficiently into a corded shape. He winds that around Silver’s wrists, fingers slipping against the bone to check the tightness, then securing it with an easy knot. A glance between them: a mutual assurance that Silver could escape easily, if he needed to. But he’ll comply. He’ll obey his Captain.

The first test Flint gives him, of course, is walking his fingers back down the underside of Silver’s arms. He seems overly delighted that Silver is ticklish. Silver whines and snarls and cringes, his skin sensitised from Flint’s attention. Flint swipes the hair of Silver’s underarm, bringing his fingers to his nose. Silver shivers as Flint sniffs, considers, and growls. Next he finds the bruise he inflicted on Silver’s rib, pressing slightly with his knuckles. The oil has soothed the worst of the pain, so the ache it provokes is thrilling. A place of Flint‘s, under Silver’s skin.

Flint’s hand glides over Silver’s belly, circling his navel, following the grooves of Silver’s hipbones.

He’s so close to Silver’s cock, where it strains painfully in his breeches. Silver bites on his lip to stop himself rocking upward, seeking contact before it’s granted. The sting sends a jolt through him: his teeth catch where Flint had broken the skin while kissing him. Flint notices, a crooked smile breaking across his face as his attention is drawn back to Silver’s mouth. He touches the wound, and Silver doesn’t flinch but he shudders, as Flint traces the lines of Silver’s lips, testing how swollen they are, spreading the blood over them like rouge. Silver’s tongue darts out to meet him, flicking the pad of Flint’s finger. Flint lets him curl his tongue around one digit before pulling it away.

‘You’ve never sucked a cock before, have you?’ he asks.

Silver shakes his head, and Flint takes his chin between forefinger and thumb, examining him.

‘Another thing I’ll have to teach you.’

He doesn’t sound unhappy about it, flicking playfully under Silver’s chin. Silver chases his hand, snatching a finger and drawing it into his mouth. He sucks hard enough to bruise, keeping his teeth covered as best he can. His tongue rubs the underside of Flint’s finger, curling around it, pulling it back in when Flint teases away. Flint gives him a second finger and Silver immediately licks, tongue slithering along the gap between them, trying to maintain the pressure of suckling them. He bobs his head to take them as deep as he can, but when they reach the back of his throat he gags, and Flint has to grab his jaw with the other hand to prise his fingers free.

‘That’s enough for now,’ Flint tells him.

‘Please, I can…’ Silver’s mouth tastes like blood and oil and Flint.

‘You can’t,’ Flint shakes his head. ‘I’ll tell you when you’re good enough to suck my cock.’

His gaze drags down Silver’s body. It’s as strong as a physical touch, Silver’s cock throbbing when Flint finally acknowledges it with an arch of his eyebrow. Flint’s throat bobs as he swallows.

‘Turn over,’ he commands. Silver groans in frustration, until Flint shoots a glare at him.

‘I told you there were consequences,’ Flint reminds him. ‘Or don’t you want them?’

‘I want them,’ Silver says, rushing to obey. It’s clumsy, with his hands bound above his head and his cock painfully hard. But he ends up lying on his chest, hips raised optimistically off the mattress.

Flint takes the waist of his breeches and begins guiding them down. He pays no heed to Silver’s cock, letting it be pulled by the fabric until it slaps wetly on his belly.

When Silver is naked, Flint’s touch runs up his thighs, over his ass to his tailbone. Flint makes an approving sound as he strokes the swell of Silver’s ass, testing the firmness.

‘How many times did you watch me?’ Flint asks, one hand spreading across the cheek of Silver’s ass.

‘How many...?’ Silver stammers. ‘Wait, how many times have you been—‘

Flint smacks him. Silver yelps, a blurt of fluid escaping his cock. Flint’s hand is burning hot, rubbing over the stinging skin.

‘Answer the question,’ Flint commands.

‘Once!’ Silver cries. Flint’s hand disappears, and Silver expects another strike. ‘Only once, last night, I swear.’

Flint taps thoughtfully. ‘Had you come snooping?’

‘No,’ Silver answers. ‘No, I only looked to see if you were busy...’

‘And what did you find?’

‘You... you were.’

 _Crack_. Flint’s palm lands on the other cheek. The pain is searing, gone too soon. Silver needs another.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Flint‘s hand is poised to strike again.

‘I looked through the slats—’  _crack_ ‘—and you were there—’  _crack_ ‘—using it.’

Silver’s voice breaks during the last blow.

‘What did you do?’ Flint pets him again, soothing.

‘I didn’t want to, to interrupt,’ Silver confesses. ‘I came back here.’

‘And...?’ Flint’s voice is icy, and deadly patient.

‘Touched myself,’ Silver almost chokes on the confession.

Flint hits his thigh, then holds it down so Silver can’t writhe away.

‘Made myself come,’ Silver earns a matching blow on the other thigh. ‘Thinking about fucking you.’

A rhythmic succession of strikes, so quick that Silver is sobbing by the last one. When they cease, he struggles to catch his breath, the sheets wet under his face.

‘Why were you there?’

Silver is too dazed to answer, and Flint’s hand aligns itself on his ass in warning.

‘I was…’ Silver struggles to recall, to put it in words. ‘I came to apologise.’

‘For what?’ Flint speaks softly, smoothly, as if his voice alone can cool Silver’s burning skin.

‘For… being foolish,’ Silver can barely speak through the bright haze of pain. ’I threw myself at you without a thought for… how you felt. I showed none of the discipline you taught me.’

‘You didn’t, did you,’ Flint murmurs. His weight shifts off the mattress, and Silver tries to roll to one side to see where he’s gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ Silver tells him. ’Sir.’

Flint is standing, watching him, and for a moment Silver is terrified he’ll leave. But, while he can’t crane his neck to see Flint’s face very well, he’s at just the right height to see Flint’s breeches—and how hard Flint is underneath them.

‘That error was far more grave than spying,’ Flint reaches out, tucking back a few stray curls so Silver can see him better. ‘What should we do about it?’

Silver swallows. He’s beginning to shudder from the lack of contact. Flint’s fingers weave into his hair, digging into Silver’s scalp and encouraging him to formulate a suggestion.

‘Your belt,’ Silver breathes. He hears Flint’s snort of surprise. ‘It should be the belt.’

Flint exhales: from amusement or surprise, Silver’s unsure. But he stands, removing the belt and folding it. Silver’s head drops again and he raises his hips in anticipation.

The leather is cool when it trails over his skin. Flint lays the belt flat on Silver’s ass, so he can feel the chilly nubs of each stud. A promise that each one will burn when it bites his skin. Silver shivers, excited, and Flint taps him with the belt.

Silver surges into the touch, already tense all over. Flint circles lightly with the belt, waiting for something.

‘How many lashes do you think, Mister Quartermaster?’

Silver’s body is jelly, and his tongue is lead. Surely Flint can’t expect him to answer. But the belt begins to withdraw and Silver blurts out: ’Nineteen.’

‘Nineteen?’ Flint repeats. An odd choice of number.

‘Nineteen days,’ Silver says. ‘I was trying to…’

Flint waits.

‘… to seduce you.’

‘A lash for each day,’ Flint confirms.

‘Yes,’ Silver says. And then: ‘Please.’

‘Very well,’ and Silver hears the shift to the Captain’s tone of voice. ‘You’re to keep count.’

‘Sir,’ Silver agrees, trying not to buck upward and meet the first strike. He must be patient: he must be disciplined, or what has he learned?

The leather barks with the speed Flint wields it, interrupted by the leather smacking down on his ass. Silver yelps, but recovers himself enough to acknowledge: ‘One.’

On the second strike, Silver realises the breadth of the belt, how easily it spans both his cheeks. It finds everywhere Flint’s hands had struck him, and it makes those places sing.

‘Two.’

‘Three’ comes quickly, followed by Silver’s throat catching on: ‘Four.’

Flint pauses. The wait is worse than the beating. The pain is under his skin now, deep in the flesh, radiating through every fibre of him.

 _Five:_ he doesn’t say it aloud. He _has_ to. If he disappoints Flint now, he’ll— _no._ ‘Five.’

‘Six—seven—eight,’ land in a flurry, Silver choking and sobbing by the last syllable. Surely this hurts more than anything of Flint’s blows on the cliffs. He’s almost going to ask for Flint to use his hand for the rest when _‘Nine!’_ lashes across his thighs.

He can feel where a pattern of welts will raise, red tonight and purple tomorrow, blue for a week and green the next. He will count them every day as they blur and fade, pretty as a sunset, and he will know they are mirrored in the studs of Flint’s belt.

‘Ten! Fuck!’

It strikes like lightning, harder than the rest put together. Silver’s face is streaming, his cock is aching for attention. He ruts against the mattress and Flint snarls:

‘Don’t you _dare.’_

‘Eleven,’ is another furious blow. Flint flays him hard, the full spectrum of hurt between the lashes.

‘Seven left,’ Flint notes. ‘A week.’

‘Fuck, oh _fuck,’_ Silver whimpers, slithering on the sheets. He wants more than seven: he wants Flint never to stop, but he wants to be _good:_ he wants both these things at once so badly he cannot bear it.

‘You’ll ask for the rest,’ Flint tells him.

Silver is weeping, unable to stop the shudders coursing through him like a tide.

 _‘Please,’_ spills out of him as a long syllable. His accent is slipping. It’s too much, keeping his vowels clipped when every nerve in his body is alight.

‘Please?’ Flint repeats.

‘Twelve, sir,’ Silver says. He chokes with relief when Flint hits him again.

’Thirteen,’ he drops the _h_. An unwelcome voice in his mind scolds him: how long did he spend teaching himself that sound? He corrects himself: ‘ _Thir—’_

Flint strikes him before he can finish. The implication is clear: Silver was understood the first time. He has no need to amend his pronunciation.

Silver breathes, properly breathes, and the pain is almost overwhelming. Not unbearable: he’s well aware of how far that threshold is, and how little one can do when it‘s surpassed.

‘Fourteen,’ he requests: a needed distraction. Flint beats him with what must be all his strength, enough to make Silver yell and bite down on the skin of his forearm to muffle himself. His teeth are a surprising sting, new and novel, compared to the pulsing soreness of his lower half. He can feel his heart beating down his whole spine.

His cock is leaking ceaselessly now, trapped between his belly and the sheets. Every time Silver squirms it feels as good as a lover. A moan slips out of him as he grinds his hips, and Flint’s belt hits him with agonising precision.

‘Don’t you _dare_ come,’ Flint warns him, dripping with venom. ‘Not until I’m finished with you.’

Silver nods, pulling his hips away from the mattress, ignoring how his cock throbs from exposure. Soon, he promises it. Soon, after:

‘Fifteen.’

This one only makes him grunt, as if there’s nothing left in his lungs. A reiteration, a reminder of all the blows already impressed. He wants to savour the last strikes. He has no idea how he could _feel_ more than he’s already feeling, though.

One way to find out: ‘Sixteen.’

Flint angles this one so it rolls across Silver’s cheeks, not so sharp but licking around his flank.

‘Seventeen’ is laid diagonally. Silver will have marks above the waist of his breeches.

‘Eighteen,’ Silver twists his hands in their binding. It’s over; it’s ending. His body is one long ache, its boundaries broken down, his thoughts fading into sensation. He’s a liquid that fills any shape Flint will pour him into.

He’d spent so long trapped in his skin. His thoughts had become so _loud_.

Flint is quiet. Everything, for a moment, is quiet. Silver lets the word fall from his lips, tongue curling behind his teeth: ‘Nineteen.’

Today is the nineteenth day.

The impact is a hurricane, tipping Silver’s world off its axis and sinking him into the depths of the pain. He drifts.

Then Flint’s hands are there, steering him, putting him back together. The oil is cool, drizzling on his burning skin. Smooth touches sweep it over Silver’s ass. Gentle and steady, Flint mending everything he broke. Silver groans in wordless gratitude, and Flint acknowledges it with a brief squeeze. It hurts, a new kind of pressure, and Silver lifts his head in surprise. Flint moves up his back, working over the muscles that have tightened during the beating.

‘Still with me?’ Flint asks.

‘Mm,’ Silver purrs, then tries to do better. ‘Here, Captain.’

‘Good,’ Flint’s hands guide him to roll over. Silver is pliable, bending in Flint’s grip. Then the tender skin of his ass touches the sheets and surprises him. He blinks in the candlelight, scrunching his nose as he tries to settle on his back.

‘Can you manage it?’ Flint asks. ‘Don’t lie.’

Silver doesn’t have it in him to lie right now anyway. ‘I can.’

‘Good,’ Flint says, and whatever might have hurt before, it stops.

Flint is naked—Silver couldn’t guess when that happened—a different beast from the one Silver saw in the cool evening light at the springs. The candle casts him in reds and oranges: ochre, rust, honey, embers, gold. A thigh swings over Silver to straddle him, and Flint oils up his hand again. Then Flint twists back and Silver remembers the posture, his hands twitching in front of him in an attempt to participate. Flint takes them by the knot and guides them back above Silver’s head. Silver arches up to meet him and Flint grants him a kiss, a messy drag of tongues and swollen lips, slow and starving. The weight of Flint’s thighs and his hands anchor Silver, and the lightest brush of Flint’s skin on Silver’s cock has him quaking with need. Flint pulls Silver’s lower lip into his mouth, sucking until it must bruise, until it starts to bleed again, running his tongue over it before letting it pop free. Silver breathes, biting his lip in an echo of Flint’s kiss. Flint bumps their noses together before sitting upright, fingers splayed on Silver’s chest for balance. His other hand reaches behind himself, and Silver wriggles underneath trying to watch as Flint begins to work himself open.

‘Wait your turn,’ Flint grins, looking at Silver’s straining cock.

It’s like last night but so much more vivid, Flint close enough for Silver to smell the lust on him, hear the stilted breaths as he stretches himself. Silver is prone underneath, Flint filling his senses, bearing down on him.

Flint doesn’t waste time. Silver recalls, fleetingly, the implication that Flint does this often. It seems a distant memory, Silver’s assumption that Flint would be the one to fuck him. He’s so beautiful like this. Of course, Silver thinks, this is the way Flint will claim Silver as his own.

Flint sighs raggedly as he removes his hand. He applies oil again, his fingers dripping and shiny with it.

‘Remember what I said,’ Flint smiles, but his tone is strict. ‘Don’t come.’

His hand wraps around Silver’s cock, so suddenly that Silver doesn’t react immediately. Flint slicks him, and if he did it with any less efficiency Silver fears he _would_ come. But Flint’s not doing this for Silver’s benefit, and there’s something about that, about Silver’s pleasure being incidental, that makes it even better. It’s the promise that he’s there to please Flint, that he _will_ : that he’s good enough.

When Flint decides he’s ready, he circles the base of Silver’s cock and sinks down on it. Silver can’t breathe until he’s sheathed, Flint seated in his lap, a warm and solid weight on top of him. He exhales when Flint does, slow, unsteady. Flint’s fingertips settle on his chest again, and Silver feels every twitch and clench of muscle from the inside. Flint’s mouth is open, a predatory set to his teeth. He rolls his hips and grunts as if the feeling is unexpected. Silver waits, keeping still, concentrating desperately on holding back the threatening orgasm.

Flint starts to move, incrementally, and Silver cries out as his thighs are pressed agonisingly into the mattress. It comes back afresh, every sting of the studded belt, every bruise left by Flint’s hand. The pain is a mercy, taking the edge off the pleasure enough that he can fuck Flint without coming. It hurts like hell, like everything he’s needed.

Flint chuckles, a breathless sound, when Silver looks up at him. ‘You feel it?’

‘Yeah,’ Silver says, and Flint rises from him, crashing back down and making both of them groan. ‘Fuck, _yes_ , I feel it.

Silver tries to thrust, working in tandem with Flint, and Flint changes the rhythm, rocking atop him. Silver gives up, leaning back and stretching out, letting Flint use him as he wishes.

Flint speeds up, and his grip on Silver’s cock is vicelike.

‘This is mine,’ Flint tells him, tightening somehow to emphasise his point. ‘You’re mine.’

Silver nods, whining, sweat breaking across his skin. His heart is going quicker than a rabbit’s, and he wants to give Flint _more_ , offering himself up as best he can. Flint takes and takes, setting a pace so rough it makes him grunt each time their hips crash together. His thighs are clamped around Silver, knees digging into Silver’s sides. The fingers that were balanced on Silver’s chest start to scrabble. His cock is hard and red, bobbing between them, and Flint finally takes it in hand.

‘Not yet,’ he orders Silver, and Silver can’t disobey him. ‘Give me more.’

Silver whines. The sight of Flint stroking himself while Silver's own cock is trapped inside him is almost too much. The tremors start there, Silver feeling them before he can see them.

‘Come on,’ Flint urges him. ‘Come _on_.’

Flint snarls as he comes, shamelessly loud, still grinding on Silver in an even harsher rhythm than before. His come stripes across Silver’s torso, while Silver’s underside is burning with pain.

‘Don’t stop,’ Flint tells him, and Silver screams in frustration. He wants to ask _how_ , but Flint says: ‘You can do it, don’t stop.’

And somehow, if Flint believes it, Silver does too. Flint rides him through the aftershocks, wringing every last ounce of feeling from it.

‘Fuck,’ Silver whimpers. ‘Please, _please_ , oh, _fuck_ , Captain...’

‘Say it again,’ Flint commands, his voice raw, an echo of the last time Silver was pinned under him.

‘ _Captain_ ,’ Silver gasps, and he hopes it’s permission to come because the orgasm rips through him, amplified by the pain and the thrill of Flint’s control. And he hears it, through the bright and visceral euphoria:

‘ _Yes, that’s good, that’s it, perfect..._ ’

Flint is still on him, murmuring through it, milking the final waves of bliss from him. He stays there, his weight grounding Silver even after he slows. He stays until Silver’s sweat starts to cool and his ass starts to sting. Silver whimpers when he finally climbs off, his cock falling soft and prone. Flint lands heavily beside him, breathing like a bellows. He fumbles with the knot binding Silver’s wrists—Silver had forgotten they weren’t always bound—and prods Silver until he’s lying on his side, facing Flint. The air on Silver’s thighs brings a flood of relief. Flint starts rubbing Silver’s wrists, checking them over. It feels a lot like holding hands, Silver thinks.

When Flint is satisfied that Silver has feeling in his hands, Silver props himself up to blow out the candle. They’re left with the smell of smoke and sweat, the warmth of two bodies as Flint invites himself to stay the night by pulling the blankets over them both.

Now, Silver realises. It has to be now, before the world becomes real again.

‘It _is_ John Silver.’

‘Hmm?’ Flint’s voice is fuzzy at the edges. Maybe he’ll fall asleep before Silver explains the rest of it.

‘My name,’ he says, ‘It’s John Silver.’

It’s easier to say with an English accent, where dropping the _r_ sounds almost like an _a_.

‘There’s just... more.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Flint wraps an arm around him, so they’re cuddled close together. It isn’t that strange, the number of times they’ve been close in other circumstances.

‘I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to,’ Silver insists. He can’t give much: there’s still things that hurt, in the wrong ways, but he can tell this part. It says enough.

‘Alright,’ Flint’s thumb brushes his shoulder in light circles, affectionate.

‘You have to promise not to laugh.’

‘Silver,’ Flint rumbles, and Silver can feel him waking himself up enough to ask: ‘Why the fuck would I laugh?’

‘I have a... funny name.’

‘Is it Solomon Little?’

Silver shoves him gently. ‘It fucking is _not_ Solomon Little. Do I look like a Solomon Little?’

Flint sighs. ‘What is it, then?’

Silver pats Flint’s arm, just for one last moment of levity before the admission. He repeats his earlier question: ‘How much time do you have?’

Flint groans. ‘You are incredibly optimistic about how long I can stay awake after sex. Just tell me and we’ll pretend I was awake for it.’

Silver takes a deep breath, feeling Flint’s chest rise and fall in time with his own.

‘John Eduardo Almeida Lopes da Silva Smith.’

The silence opens up like an abyss, as if a hush has fallen over the whole island. Silver shuts his eyes and wishes it would swallow him up.

‘It’s _what?’_

‘John. Eduardo. Almeida. Lopes. da Silva. Smith.’

It’s been a long time since he recited all of it for someone, from start to end. The reaction is just the same.

‘... _really?_ ’ he can _hear_ Flint’s eyebrow raising.

‘Why the fuck would I make that up?’

‘What is that, Spanish?’

‘Portuguese. And English.’

‘Oh...’ Flint says, an oddly light sound that burns with curiosity.

‘What?’ Silver drawls.

‘I thought... you might be Irish,’ Flint admits. ‘It’s in your accent, sometimes.’

Another truth, tangled up in it all.

‘I am,’ he admits. Of all the times for that accent to abandon him—he sounds perfectly London-bred when he says it.

‘Juan Eduardo...’ Flint tries to repeat it.

‘ _John_ Eduardo. That’s the English part.’

The name is a story of its own. Mongrel parentage, an awkward amalgam of lineage, and an utter lack of it. He waits for Flint to figure it out.

‘John... Smith?’

‘I was named for my father,’ Silver’s voice drips with irony. The name a naïve Portuguese girl was given by a blue-eyed English sailor. How could she have known? _John Smith_  was nothing but promise he would be long gone before his son was born. Appropriate, Silver always thought, that he was named for a lie.

‘So it’s _da Silva?’_ Flint asks.

‘Just Silver is fine,’ and this time he rolls the _r_ how he likes. ‘It’s better than _Smith_.’

‘I suppose so,’ Flint pulls him closer, kissing his forehead. ‘It suits you.’

 _‘Flint_ suits you,’ Silver retorts. ‘So… now you know.’

‘Thank you,’ Flint nuzzles his hair.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Silver says. ‘Ever again, please.’

‘It’s alright,’ Flint reassures him, even as Silver squirms. He holds Silver tighter, until he stills. ’Perhaps I know something about falling for a man who could ruin you.’

‘Oh,’ Silver grins, headbutting Flint as gently as he can. ‘Have you fallen for me?’

‘See if you feel so clever in the morning,’ Flint chuckles. ‘When you’re trying to fight with all the bruises I just gave you.’

Silver groans. ‘Surely you don’t plan to spar tomorrow?’

‘I most certainly do,’ Flint might sound more stern if he wasn’t so sleepy.

Silver burrows into Flint’s chest, so he can feel the warm purr when he says: ‘Yes, Captain.’


End file.
